Pages

Wednesday, 20 December 2017

This week's prompt is a piece of art by Heise, a Chinese artist who has lots of other wonderful art on her page at Deviant Art. She calls this simply: The Angel. He is so beautiful.

I have actually written for him before back in July 2015 for a Midsummer Night's Dream contest, a story called Soulmates. But he is so wonderful I wanted to write for him again, and wanted others to have the same opportunity. He is so gorgeous. And I thought an Angel in the week running up to Christmas was appropriate too.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Human
Assignment

“But Dad
that’s not fair, you can’t do that?

“Michael, I can and I will, you have to start
taking this seriously.”

“But none
of my friends have to.”

“None of
your friends are in training to be an Archangel. It takes a lot of
responsibility.”

“But what
if I don’t want to be an Archangel?”

Michael’s
father spun round. Michael could see him clench his fists in frustration.

“There is
no choice in this Michael, it has already been decided.”

“But that’s
not fair!”

“You were
made to serve; it’s what the Gods created you for. It’s why you have four wings
and not two like the rest of us. I was honoured my son was chosen, but your
resistance makes me question their decision. You care for nobody but yourself.”

“What do
you expect from me? I’m not even at full maturity yet. Why should I have to
care about anybody else?”

Michael’s
father rolled his eyes to the ceiling of their cavernous home, his wings
stretching up along with them. “Give me strength!”

Michael’s
mother entered the room. She was a delicate Seraphim, dainty and fragile to
look at. His father had chosen her for her striking beauty, despite being two
realms higher than her in hierarchy. As a Dominion angel some would say he
married beneath him, but he would say that it had been destined by the Gods,
and Michael’s very existence proved it. Michael’s pure white quad wings,
combined with his perfect facial features and natural accentuated physique, put
him above everyone. And he hated it.

“Michael
can you not understand that resisting your future will only make your life
harder; the sooner you accept your position and embrace it, the easier
everything will become, and in time you can do all the things you want to do.”
His mother’s gentle voice quelled his irritation at his father, and he could
see the same magic working on his father as he brought his wings down.

“I just
want to fit in, mum, that’s all. I want to be normal and do normal work for the
Gods. I don’t want to have to interact with humans.” He shuddered, his feathers
rippling from top to toe. “Just the thought of having to protect that wanton,
arrogant species makes me feel dirty to my core.”

“But the
Gods enjoy them. They see them as some kind of experiment, believing we can all
learn something from them.” His mother stroked his feathers, calming him
further.

“But what
could we possibly learn? We are far superior to them.”

“Being
humble maybe?” his father interjected.

Michael
sighed. He just wanted to hang out with his mates. He didn’t want to do extra
training or undertake special assignments. And the human he’d been assigned to
for his trial run was a nightmare.

“But the
boy I’m supposed to be protecting doesn’t seem to get anything. He just does
what he wants, when he wants, no matter what anyone says or how much others try
to help him.”

His
father’s eyebrows went up. “Remind you of anyone?”

Michael
scowled. “He’s making decisions that are only going to cause more problems. If
I’m so much like him, how am I supposed to help him?”

His father
smiled. “And therein lies your answer. What would help you if you were like
him? What would it take to make you hear the voice of reason?”

The
realisation dawned on Michael, but he resented giving his father credit for it,
so he kept his expression neutral. But Michael knew his father wasn’t stupid;
Michael’s silence was enough to indicate he’d understood. His father looked
pleased.

“It seems
we needed to have this conversation, Michael. I hope now you can continue with
your assignment and move towards your full potential.”

Michael
rolled his eyes and stomped out of the room. But it was an act; he was excited
to see if he could get the boy to respond to what he needed to understand now.
A smirk spread across his face. He’d never admit it to his father but he
enjoyed the challenge of working with humans.

Wednesday, 13 December 2017

This week's photo is from Parrish Relics, which sells handcrafted Amulate jewellery. I can't find any crowns on her site but the owner of Parrish Relics, Jen Parrish-Hill put this picture up on her Pinboard. I think this might have been a custom piece.

It was easy to come up with this tale and hear these characters but it was a struggle to find any kind of twist, so it is just a piece of what could be a larger work.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Game of Crowns

Kalic
didn’t know where Karnie had hidden it but he knew that once the papers were
produced Karnie would have no choice but to concede. Just one more day and it
would need to be back in the throne room ready for the coronation.

But who
would be crowned?

It was the
question on all their minds. Twins born just minutes apart, but which one came
first?

Their
mother had died years ago and everyone assumed their father knew, but the onset
of dementia meant he was no longer present to declare it.

Kalic
clearly remember his mother telling him was first: her blue-eyed raven arrived
first, she’d always said. He was the one with thick black hair, whereas Karnie’s
was blond. But as his brother towered over him, people assumed it was the other
way round. He was always referred to as ‘the little brother’.

It meant
the papers had to be found, showing the exact time of birth, and stupidly they
were kept at Great Bander, the strong hold in the North.

Kalic
didn’t trust it. They could be interfered with at any stage of the journey, so
he had gone personally. He had not viewed them, simply collected them. They
would be looked at upon his return with his brother present.

He stormed
into the East Wing of Castle Rossinda, Karnie’s side of the home they shared.

“Where is
he? I want to see him now!” he yelled at the servants.

They
scuttled before him, as he strode further into his brother’s domicile. Then a
voice reached him: “I’m here brother, what are you so blustered about?”

Kalic
pushed open the doors to the south entrance of the lounge and stomped in, the
sight of Karnie lazing on the sofa with a book enraging him further.

“Where is
it? There’ll be no pronouncement until you produce it!” he bellowed.

Karnie’s
puzzled eyes met his. “What, Kalic? Produce what?”

“The crown
you fool!”

“The crown?
Why would I have that?”

“To stall
the process and stop me from my rightful place on the throne.”

“Since when
have I ever opposed your claim to the throne?”

Kalic
halted. “Always!”

Karnie sat
up. “What lies! I don’t want the job!”

“You always
argued with father about everything, thinking you could do better, and threatened
to do so.”

Karnie
laughed. “He’s an old fool stuck in his ways. He has no idea how to rule a
progressive state, whereas I have every confidence in you.”

Kalic
slumped down into an armchair opposite his brother.

“Oh. So
where’s the crown?”

“No idea.”

“But the
coronation can’t happen without it.”

“Where did
you see it last?”

“I presumed
it was in the antiquities room, but it’s not.”

“The room
next to father’s?”

“Yes.”

“He’s
probably taken it then.”

“Why would
he do that?”

“In his
foggy state he gets quite riled up worried his throne will be taken from him.”

“What,
still?”

“Yes.”

“Come on.
Let’s go and get it.”

“What, me
too?”

“Oh yes,
I’ll need you.”

“Eh?”

They made
their way to their father’s chambers in the back of the castle. It smelled of
musty old belongings, which, Kalic supposed, their father was too now. They
found him dancing round his rooms, naked but for a robe, the crown firmly
planted on his head.

“Father,
we’ve come for the crown,” Kalic said.

He stopped
and put his hand on his head, grasping the crown. “I’ll never give it up!”

“Not even
to your sons?” Kalic asked.

Their
father paused, stepping up to them, inspecting their faces. Kalic could smell illness
and decay on his breath.

“My sons,
are you sure?”

“We’re
sure,” said Karnie.

He
continued to inspect them, then suddenly grabbed Karnie’s shirt and ripped it
off. The strength he possessed was no surprise to them; their father had been a
great warrior in his day.

Karnie’s
chest exposed a childhood scar. Their father nodded. “ ‘Tis you, there is no
doubt.”

And with
that he swept the crown off his head and plonked it on Kalic’s.

Karnie
looked surprised. “How did you know he would do that?”

“Because we
are his sons, brother, the only people he still knows and trusts.”

This
touched Karnie who stayed to settle their father and help dress him. They
escorted him to the great hall for a banquet dinner, knowing it’d be his last
as king. Despite his broken state they wanted to celebrate his reign while he
was still with them.

Tuesday, 12 December 2017

I came across this entry I wrote for a competition (Faerytaleish Pin Contest) back in May 2012, hosted by Anna Meade and posted up on her site: Yearning for Wonderland, before I had this blog. I still love the tale and the photo prompt. I am reblogging it here so I don't lose it again.

NB. A bit of research revealed this is a guy called Kiwan Landreth-Smith, he is a musician (Guitarist) from Trinidad & Tobago.

Spellbound

Spellbound was
indeed what she was when those eyes met hers. The minute she was caught
by them she knew she was his. He didn’t need to lure her back to his
lair; she was more than happy when he told her he was going to keep her
there forever.

She would sit for
hours and wind her fingers in his sundrenched hair while he tapped away
on the locks that would bind her to him. She would whisper sweet
nothings in his delicate elfish ears and run her fingers along the
ornate markings on his deeply tanned skin while he wove the iron
strands into place. And she would wait for the moment he would pause in
his toil and look at her, making her catch her breath as she lost
herself in the starlight glow of his eyes. Then he would smile in his
quiet coquettish way, and her heart would flutter.

Despite
the sparse furnishings of his beach dwelling cove, he made sure her
new home wanted for nothing; providing silk cushions for her to lie
upon, and a little tray for her food and drink. Then he hung her up
high to give her full view of the ocean and they would watch the
sunsets together.

As time went on it
was the mornings she looked forward to the most, when he would wake
her with his poking fingers and open up the door. She would turn and
meet his dreamy gaze wishing once again that she could kiss his perfect
lips and feel their fullness. But alas it was never meant to be; she
could only dance along his finger and tickle them with her own
miniature set, while fluttering her tiny wings against his cheek, and
making him laugh.

Friday, 8 December 2017

I'm a bit behind in posting (or should that be boasting?) about my National November Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) success, as I have been basking in the 'I don't have to write anything today' afterglow.

For those that are new to the writing game, this is a yearly November challenge to try and write 50,000 words in one month. The idea is to get you into the habit of writing daily and also to keep you writing forward and not continually editing or rewriting what you have written. There is also a June one now (JuNoWriMo) so you have two opportunities to do this each year or use both to get some serious writing done.

I find the pressure to write daily quite hard. In fact this is my fifth attempt and my first success, so I am not one of those that can be blaze about it and consider it a walk in the park. Most of my failures have also been down to trying to juggle work as well, but this time I had no work so I was able to give it my full attention.

I find I tend to hit a wall around the 10th day, but I managed to push forward this time. I had a trip to Edinburgh for a friend's book launch already planned, so I knew I was going to have to stop writing for about four days. I used this as a sort of deadline, raising my daily writing quota to compensate.

In the end I was surprised at how easy it was to maintain a 2,000 word daily quota, even doubling the daily word count of 1667 to 3334 on occasion to cover my four day absence. The trick I found was to write some of it in the morning, get some words under my belt before the children came home in the afternoon and then the evening shift was much easier. And also the trick of leaving it mid-scene or mid-sentence so I could pick it up again quickly.

I wrote directly into Scrivener too, which was new for me. I loved how easy it was to keep track of my daily word count and my overall progress with the Project Target tracker. I could easily change how much I wanted to write daily as well. It was simple compiling it into a Word version for verification at the end, and the entire process has definitely made me a fan of this software.

After my trip to Edinburgh I did struggle to climb back into it the novel and the routine of writing, but once I got going again, it felt normal. And that's the trick really, maintaining a certain level of writing, if not daily at least a few set days a week, which keeps it all flowing, like a muscle you are trying to build.

Previously I have left my novels for a year or sometimes more, which has made it necessary to re-read the entire thing to refresh my memory. Although that does give me the opportunity to do edits or rewrites, or add in scenes before I continue.

I started a new novel for this NaNoWriMo, rather than finishing one off as I had done last year. And although what came out was not exactly as I had envisioned, it came out painlessly and flowed in a way that made writing forward easy to maintain.

I am not a planner on the whole. I have an idea, I tend to know the ending and I have a few scenes in my head I want to include. I have a page of notes: a bit of an outline, a few questions and the concept of what I am trying to achieve, but that is all. I didn't even have the main character's names until the week prior to starting NaNoWriMo, although they tend to pop into my head when I begin. I jot them down as I go along too, so I don't deviate. This novel has been swimming around my head for the last six months and I had let it gestate and grow a little before trying to shape it.

So now I've had a rest I'm considering my next step: continue with it until it is finished, or return to editing a previous novel? Yes, I know, I can do both. But come on, that would be pushing it a little, wouldn't it? It is the month of December afterall.

See? My ability to procrastinate is still in fine form and not been disrupted by my success in any way. 😉😀

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Perspective

The
painting led her away to a far away land she wished she could visit. Warm, blue
azure seas and the imagined beaches they washed up on. She would dream about
lying on them and feeling free, liberated from the world of emptiness she now
resided in.

On calm
days she would imagine floating on the surface, drifting to wherever the
current took her, washing her up on some idyllic island where she would bask in
the luxury of only having to care about herself and no one else.

On rough
days she would imagine being on the deck of a sturdy ship, rising above the
waves and ploughing forward through them to a place unknown but full of hope
and rest.

But most
days she would stare out at the ocean as though from a window of a cell, in a
place she felt held prisoner, if not in reality then in her own mind.

And some
days the painting would seem to leak, the seas so rough they splashed over into
her own world, filling her with fear and hopelessness, unable to change or
control anything; the inevitability of drowning becoming more real as she
thumped on the glass attempting to break the window and release her soul.

Wednesday, 29 November 2017

This week's picture prompt is a painting by Keith Alexander, called 'Dead End'. It doesn't look like a painting at all. Keith Alexander was a white African artist, and much of his art was inspired by what he saw. This particular painting was inspired by a train in the Namibian Desert called Martin Luther. Sadly Keith Alexander passed away in 1998 at the young age of 52.

I have had the opening of this story in my head ever since I spotted this picture. It is sort of my nod to Stephen King's magnificent novel, The Stand, but doesn't come close to the fantastic tale or characters he weaves in that. This book also reminds me of The Dark Tower series - which crosses over with The Stand - and Blane the Pain (DT No.3). Interested to know what others see in this picture.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

The Power
of Books

“Have you
ever ridden on one of these, dad?”Jasper climbed up the side of the old rusted steam
train.

“Maybe once
or twice, when I was young like you, but these were already past my time when I
was a boy. The trains we used to ride on were electric.”

“E-lec-tric?
What does that mean dad?”

“It means
they worked using electricity, and not steam like this old train.”

“What is
ele-triz-eaty?”

“ElectriCITY.
It was a form of power, it made things go.”

Jasper was
up in the cabin now, fiddling with the rusted lever. He glanced at his dad, who
could see he didn’t understand.

“Power is like
energy it makes things work. With this old thing ...” Paul patted the metal
side of the engine, “you had to burn coal in there.” He pointed to the furnace.
“Which then heated water in there,” he pointed to an area above the furnace, “and
the hot steam would push the pistons round which would make the wheels turn.”
Jasper looked at every place his dad pointed. “But although electricity was
created the same way, it was made in huge power plants and stored in big
generators, so they could send it through wires to different things and places,
including lights for homes and ovens and TVs.” Paul knew his son didn’t know
what any of those things were, but he enjoyed remembering them and attempting
to pass on the knowledge.

“So what
happened to all the power?”

“It stopped
being made.”

“Why?”

“Because
there were no people to make it anymore.”

“Was that
when all the people got sick?”

“Yes.”

“Did you
get sick too, Dad?”

“No,
Jasper, I didn’t otherwise I wouldn’t be here either. I was one of the lucky
ones. I was immune.”

“Ee-moon?
What does that mean?”

“It means I
can’t catch it. And neither can you.”

Jasper
stopped fiddling with the engine and sat down in the cab, hanging his legs over
the edge, and looked down intently at his dad. Paul could see him thinking.

“Do people
still get sick, dad?”

“Not
anymore, Jasper, no. All the people who are left are all immune too.”

“Good. It
doesn’t sound like it was good.”

Paul smiled
at how simply his son stated the catastrophic event.

“It wasn’t,
billions of people died all over the world.”

“Will we
ever have electree-city again, dad?”

“I don’t
know son, maybe. There aren’t many people left who know how to make it, but
there should be books somewhere that we can read that will tell us, if we can
find them.”

“Can you
read, dad?”

“Yes. I
can.”

“Can you
teach me?”

“I can, but
we have to find some books first.”

“Where are
they?”

“In the
towns, you know, where all the buildings are.”

“Where the
bad people live?”

Paul’s
smile dropped when he thought about how bad it had gotten in the cities. It was
why he and Jeanie had left to live in the desert. “Yes, like where the bad
people live.”

“Will they
let us have some books?”

“I’m not
sure. It depends if they have been burning them or not.”

“Why would
they do that?”

“To keep
warm, or use the flames for light.”

“But if
they burn the books we won’t know how to make power!” Jasper was outraged.

“That’s
true. But maybe we can find another town where there aren’t bad people.”

“How?”

“By walking
that way?” Paul pointed to the hills in the distance.

“It looks a
long way.”

“It is.”

Jasper
looked back at the tent he called home, the only one he had known since his
birth five years earlier.

“Will mum come
too?”

“Of course.
We’ll all go.”

“Good.”

Paul saw
his partner on the horizon, carrying something on her shoulder.

“Come on,
let’s go see what your mum’s caught.”

“Yummy!
Food!”

Jasper
jumped down and went running towards his mum. Paul looked on. Whatever she was
carrying was big. He hoped it meant they could feed themselves up before the
big journey.